#EnglishWriters
Farewell thou thing, time past so… To me as blood to life and spirit;… Nay, thou more near than kindred,… Male to the female, soul to body;… To quick action, or the warm soft…
Gather ye rose-buds while ye may: Old Time is still a-flying; And this same flower that smiles t… To-morrow will be dying. The glorious lamp of heaven, the…
In this little urn is laid Prudence Baldwin, once my maid, From whose happy spark here let Spring the purple violet.
Great men by small means oft are o… He’s lord of thy life, who contemn…
Julia, if I chance to die Ere I print my poetry, I most humbly thee desire To commit it to the fire: Better ’twere my book were dead,
No wrath of men, or rage of seas, Can shake a just man’s purposes; No threats of tyrants, or the grim Visage of them can alter him; But what he doth at first intend,
For brave comportment, wit without… Words fully flowing, yet of influe… Thou art that man of men, the man… Worthy the public admiration: Who with thine own eyes read’st wh…
Tears, though they’re here below t… Above, they are the Angels’ spice…
Let fair or foul my mistress be, Or low, or tall, she pleaseth me; Or let her walk, or stand, or sit, The posture her’s, I’m pleased wi… Or let her tongue be still, or sti…
Whenas inn silks my Julia goes, Then, then, methinks, how sweetly… That liquefaction of her clothes. Next, when I cast mine eyes and s… That brave vibration each way free…
Ask me why I send you here This sweet Infanta of the year? Ask me why I send to you This Primrose, thus bepearl’d wit… I will whisper to your ears,—
Frolic virgins once these were, Overloving, living here; Being here their ends denied Ran for sweet-hearts mad, and died… Love, in pity of their tears,
From noise of scare-fires rest ye… From murders Benedicite. From all mischances that may frigh… Your pleasing slumbers in the nigh… Mercy secure ye all, and keep
Ye silent shades, whose each tree… Some relique of a saint doth wear; Who for some sweet-heart’s sake, d… The fire and martyrdom of Love:— Here is the legend of those saints
I ask’d thee oft what poets thou h… And lik’st the best? Still thou… —I shall, ere long, with green tur… Then sure thou’lt like, or thou wi…